Watching the Wheels
by Acey Dearest
Summary: What happens when someone pulls you out of a lifetime of watching the wheels roll, for better or for worse. Four Matt shorts, spoilers up to chapter 83.


"Watching the Wheels"

by Acey

Four unrelated Matt shorts for the utter heck of it, various genres. Chapter eighty-three spoilers.

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one

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Matt was servile by nature—he had a mind of his own, no escaping that, but he trusted in brighter minds than his own to tell him what to do. At Wammy's he was extremely efficient in partner and group activities but slept through class and turned only half his homework in on time. In the U.S., before Mello came back for him, he was an extremely capable mechanic/personal secretary/anything-that-paid, but lived in a three-room apartment with a dog snuck in against regulations.

Mello saw this, laughed hard, and offered him better. Offered him a chance to take his turn at the game of Kira he'd been denied. Offered him all the half-remembered dreams buried in his psyche, of Jesse James and John Dillinger, all the old outlaws content to fight, and fight, and die, if they must, in a pool of their own blood.

Matt accepted, because an outlaw was easy to believe in when he was your (former? ex? old? did it matter?) roommate, when he was your best friend, your leader, your idol. Mello, who'd run through life like a bat out of hell, and now had the scars to prove it, on his shoulder, on his back, on his face.

"Anything to catch Kira," he said when Matt asked him, brushing it off, looking irritated, self-conscious, and Matt never pressed the conversation any further.

The longer Matt spent with him, the more he was convinced he had misjudged Mello, even though the evidence was stacked against him being a good guy against Kira and even though the world if they knew of him would think him worse than any outlaw.

Because really, he was better than an outlaw. Because the outlaws would shrink into obscurity after being cut up or shot up or half-burned, and try to end their pursuits if they could. Mello wouldn't. Mello couldn't.

"Anything to catch Kira," and Matt thought of the old Civil War general whose leg was amputated and arm was useless, still tirelessly spurring his ragged army forward.

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two

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When he was five Matt was hopelessly in love with pretty, blonde Linda, going so far as to try to play with her hair in class (she tattled and his seat was moved to the back row). Two days after being removed from his seat behind her, he gave in to his kindergarten agony and proposed.

"She turned me down," he later moaned to an only-semi-understanding L, back at the orphanage for a visit. "Gave me back the rose I snitched from the office, too…"

"It isn't right to take things from the office, Matt…"

"I know, but they didn't miss it! Promise, there's about a million roses in that flowerpot… and none of them are real or anything, so…"

"Matt…"

L made him trudge over to the office and return the flower, for the sake of Justice. For the sake of his heart, though, Matt promised himself he would never propose with roses again.

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three

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Mello woke him up earlier than he appreciated, poking him in the ribs and grumbling that it was five-thirty and he'd had a solid five hours of sleep.

"A _solid_ five hours? Who are you kidding?"

"I only got four and I've had breakfast already. Now c'mon, Matt, get up."

"Fine, I'm up, I'm up…"

Mello generally ate a breakfast that bordered on normal (which surprised Matt—back at Wammy's the only reason he ate anything besides chocolate was because the staff made him), badly burned toast, mostly, without any margarine or jam. That kind of fare made Matt wrinkle his nose and before long his breakfast was snuck from Mello's stash of chocolate bars and tap water in complementary hotel mugs.

Fortunately, Mello was only amused once he'd caught him tearing open one of the wrappers.

"I didn't know you liked chocolate."

"I don't, but I like burned bread even less." Matt broke off a square, studied it before poking it into his mouth. "Then again, I'm used to chocolate. And four years with the Mafia ought to have gotten you used to cigarettes. Maybe we should switch bad habits. See if we like each others' better…"

Mello snorted.

"I don't think so."

Matt didn't really think so, either, but it was worth it to kill the weary, haunted look on Mello's face, just for a moment.

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four

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Servitude had its drawbacks, especially considering Mello knew his limits so ridiculously well. Matt did get aggravated on mercifully rare occasion.

"What next? Will I be painting your freaking fingernails?"

"I can take care of that much," Mello said, stuffing his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat.

He'd hit a nerve, and knew it.

"Really? I can't believe it! You can paint your own nails! Congratulations!"

Mello glared.

"The question is, can you?"

"Oh, that's not even a question. _I_ don't paint my nails—"

In one movement Mello ripped the glove off Matt's right hand.

"—Much…"

finis


End file.
